Wooden Scars
by laureleaf
Summary: Bilbo returns home, but he is not the hobbit who left, and his home is not how he left it. Ghosts linger in the wounds his friends gouged into his life. A set of interconnected drabbles.
1. Perspective

A/N: Just a set of connected drabbles that have been gathering dust in my drive for far too long. Angst aplenty: consider yourself warned.

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"Who is this person you pledged yourself to? Thorin Oakenshield?"

The pain pulled through his chest like a splinter. Bilbo had thought that he was over his king's death. He really had. It had been months, after all. Besides, his relationship with Thorin had never been the most amicable anyway.

He shouldn't be standing here, eyes filling with tears, utterly unable to say a word.

Gandalf had understood. They had spoken of other things, like the grand history of Middle Earth and the poetry of the Elves. Not dwarves, of course. Nothing ever to do with dwarves. Hearing the name of the dwarf Bilbo had followed into the literal maw of a dragon for the first time since he'd left the Lonely Mountain spoken so irreverently…

That's when he realized that _none_ of these hobbits, these dear hobbits that had known everything about him and his entire family for his whole life, understood anything. They couldn't comprehend the madness that drove people to war, or the loss that comes from seeing friends hacked to pieces in front of you, or the fierce love that drove someone to do the impossible. They had no idea how sheltered, how protected they were, and how much strangers had sacrificed in order for them to live in peace and plenty. They couldn't possibly understand how quaint the small hills of the Shire were compared to the cruel majesty of the Lonely Mountain, or how insignificant their petty quarrels were in the larger scheme of kingdoms.

Bilbo's downturned eyes caught on the rune etched into his door. The gouges were still easily distinguishable, even though the green paint had faded over the last year. Ori had relented when his elders would not and had taught him how to read a bit of Khuzdul, the dwarves' secret language. Bilbo thought the markings were random scratches when he left: now he understood them to mean "G for Gandalf".

 _"If you do come back, you will never be the same."_

Bilbo had known he would have to sacrifice much for the wizard's adventure. His home and the comfort it provided, his reputation, his friends, possibly even his very life. He didn't realize that he had sacrificed _himself_. The Bilbo of Bag End who'd left so many months ago was as dead as Smaug, but none of his old friends knew it.


	2. Empty

Bilbo told Bofur, in a moment of anger early on, that he wasn't like the dwarves: he had a home. He had a comfy chair and a fireplace and a warm cup of tea to look forward to when he returned from their ridiculous adventure.

Apparently not.

Admittedly, he did not have to wait almost 200 years to get it back, but still. Mrs. Sackville-Baggins was just as vicious as a fire-breathing dragon when she was angry (and oh, was she angry). His home was completely ransacked. Apparently everyone in the Shire now had a piece of his furniture or furnishings squirreled away somewhere. Bilbo would have to do battle for his home just as surely as the dwarves. He wondered if waving Sting about would speed things along. The Valar knew it had done precious little good in the actual Battle.

Bilbo had imagined his homecoming so many times in the last few months. Memories of home were what had kept him going through all of the pain and hardship. He had never, in his most wild dreams, thought it would be like this. Looking at the detritus-filled shell of his past life, he wanted nothing more than to sit down in his chair with a cup of hot tea and have a good cry. He couldn't, of course: he had no chair. Or tea. Or teacup. Or anything, really.

Well, he'd made do for the last few months, he would have to make do for a little while longer. There was still enough kindling in the fireplace for a small fire. He had his camp kettle and a bit of coffee. Bilbo found a scrap of Longbottom leaf in the back of his dusty old built-in cupboard and pulled out the pipe Bifur had carved for him. It was covered with miniature pictures of all their adventures along the stem. The bowl was crafted to look like Smaug breathing fire upon the Mountain. Macabre, to be sure, but marvelous workmanship nevertheless.

Once his coffee was done, Bilbo sat down on his worn cloak in the middle of his empty kitchen. His hand ghosted over the gouges that still marred his polished floor from where the enthusiastic dwarves had pulled the table into the hall in order to make enough room for everyone. That night, he'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

He was alone now, and wanted nothing more than a bunch of strangers to burst through his door to eat his food and scuff his floors.

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A/N: Thanks for reading: reviews are love!


	3. Ghosts

A great announcement had gone out to everyone who'd been at the auction, asking for the return of Bilbo's things. Most of the hobbits were quite gracious, if a bit curious and confused, about the whole situation. His house was soon full again, albeit a tad disheveled. Bilbo was in the middle of directing traffic and checking things off the auctioneer's list when he spotted a younger hobbit struggling with a large package wrapped in protective rags.

"Here, let me help," he said, grabbing a corner and taking some of the weight. It was quite heavy. "What do you have here?"

"It's some sort of old box thing. It was a bit muddy when we got it but mum cleaned it up nicely. The top is still a bit scruffed on the edge though. I can get my da to sand it out and refinish it if you like."

The wrappings shifted a bit, and Bilbo almost dropped his mother's glory box on his foot in shock.

"Are you alright sir? It's rather hefty; don't strain yourself…" the lad fretted, pulling the box away and setting it down before leading Bilbo over to sit on it. He just sat there for several moments, absentmindedly stroking the deep gouges in the lid.

"Are you alright sir? You look a bit peaked," the lad asked again. So young. _Like Kili, poor Kili._ Bilbo thought he was over the princes' deaths: he had grieved with the dwarves in the Mountain and he had grieved with Gandalf on the quieter return to the Shire. His heart had not felt like someone had stabbed it _like Fili, poor Fili_ for months. But seeing such a physical and tangible reminder of such vibrant lives so cruelly cut short…

Bilbo took a deep breath, like Oin had coached him, and counted to ten. Then he released it slowly. He could not lose his composure here. Later. But not now. He was already drawing too many stares.

"I'm fine," Bilbo lied. "You're quite a strong lad: that box is heavier than I thought. Give me a moment to catch my breath."

 _"It is ok to be surprised by grief,"_ Balin's memory reminded him as he got to his feet. The dwarf's old eyes glinted with too many years of too many losses. _"The dead never really leave us, and that brings both lasting joy and lingering sorrow. Their ghosts cling to the things that they touched in life. When you find them it can be… jarring. You do not expect to find the dead among the possessions of the living. But eventually, the things that once gave you the greatest pain will become your greatest comfort."_

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A/N: Thanks for reading, reviews are love!


	4. Healing

Bilbo repaints the door as soon as he finds the green paint in the mess that is currently his home. He demotes his mother's glory box from its place of prominence at the front door to a rarely-used spare bedroom. When rewaxing the hall floor was insufficient to hide the gouges, he covers them with a thick rug. Within a week, there is no sign that any dwarf has ever crossed his threshold. Within a month, there is no sign that Bilbo ever left.

(Bilbo is a better concealer than he was a burglar.)

At first, the hobbits at he Green Dragon pester him relentlessly for his story. They prod and cajole until their insensitive questions drive him to drink a few too many and he tells them about the sound someone makes when their heart is impaled and the smell of a punctured gut and the brightness of blood on snow. The inquiries stop after that. Bilbo pretends that he doesn't mind their whispering stares, just as he pretends that he doesn't mind living alone with the ghosts and the silence. He's a Baggins of Bag End, and there's nothing wrong with him.

(Bilbo is a better liar than he is a concealer.)

An accident gives him a silent youngling with haunted eyes that have seen death. Bilbo knows that look: he's seen it in the mirror. One day, Frodo lays a battered map on Bilbo's lap. His troubled eyes grow wide with excitement as Bilbo hesitantly reads out the almost-forgotten dwarven script.

 _Rivendell. Misty Mountains. Erebor._

The names are like a magic spell, and Frodo's silence turns into a never-ending stream of questions. Bilbo answers as best he can, and finds that Frodo doesn't judge him for his tears. In fact, he often joins in his uncle's grief. The lad weeps for people he's never met, despite being dry-eyed at his parents' funeral. Together, they plant the acorn from Beorn's garden that Bilbo hid away so many years ago.

(Bilbo is a better gardener than he is a liar.)

The oak tree in the backyard is large enough for Frodo to climb. Bilbo's been too busy chasing after his energetic nephew to repaint the scratched and faded door. When an art project gone wrong ruins the carpet over the gouges on the floor, he doesn't replace it. His mother's scuffed glorybox now sits in Frodo's bedroom, filled with mementos from all his adventures. At night, Bilbo smokes his dragon-carved pipe and tells Frodo stories about the sons of Durin.

(Bilbo is a better storyteller than he is a gardener.)

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A/N: Thanks for reading :)


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